


in the pivot of glass

by sophiegaladheon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (also because Yurio), (because Yurio), Career Change, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Paris (City), Post-Canon, Profanity, Supportive Katsuki Yuuri, Supportive Victor Nikiforov, Travel, Vacation, change is hard, post-retirement Viktor, post-retirement Yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 15:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18034253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: The first time they had visited Paris it was March, a bit cold and drizzly, the first bright tendrils of spring just poking their way out of the cold dark hibernation of winter.  A World Championship gold adorned Yuuri’s neck and another, just as valuable gold on their ring fingers.  Yuuri had been to Paris before, of course, competition and ice shows had brought him to the city a few times in his career, but being there with Viktor, on their honeymoon, was an entirely different experience.  The second trip to Paris, five years later, feels different, calmer yet no less dazzling.  It was probably him that was different, Yuuri thought, the pair of them that have changed more than the city.With Yuuri now retired from competitive skating, he and Viktor move back to Hasetsu to coach.  But first, a trip to Paris - a break from the hectic pace of their lives and space for them to simply enjoy their time with one another.





	in the pivot of glass

**Author's Note:**

> Hooray! I finally finished and can share my fic for the Viktuuri Fluff Bang! I'm very proud, this is the first bang I ever participated in, and I had a great time. 
> 
> The (absolutely amazing) art for this story was created by the incredible Wafa, whose work you can find over on tumblr at [waffles-doodles-you-all](https://waffles-doodles-you-all.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The title is from the poem "Itinerary" by Jennifer Wong.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168838868@N03/33437595768/in/dateposted-friend/)  
The train pulled in to Gare de l’Est at half past nine in the morning. It discharged its passengers onto the platforms, and the crush of bodies and luggage flowed with the typical frenetic determination of transit hubs everywhere on to destinations unknown. With a yawn, Yuuri shoved his way out of the stream of foot traffic and sat down on one of the wood and ironwork benches that lined the side of the station.

With a roller bag tucked between his legs, Makkachin sitting calmly by his knee, and his duffle on his lap, he sipped at his cup of, admittedly quite terrible, coffee as he waited for Viktor to fight his way over with the rest of the luggage. The high, arching ceilings and frantic pace of his fellow travelers made interesting viewing, but after two days on a train Yuuri was looking forward to getting out and stretching his legs.

It had been Viktor’s idea, to take the train from Moscow to Paris for the outbound travel leg of their trip, and it had sounded like a lovely idea at the time. Like all of Viktor’s romantic gestures it was exciting and thoughtful, and Yuuri, for once not even hampered by his anxiety, could think of no objection to a more scenic and leisurely pace of travel than their accustomed hopscotch through countless airports.

What neither Yuuri nor Viktor had accounted for, however, was that despite now both being officially retired from competitive skating—for a few weeks and a few years respectively—they both remained incredibly active people. Two days of confinement in a space barely larger than a breadbox and they both were ready to vibrate out of their skins by the time the train arrived in Paris. Makkachin had weathered the trip better than either of them, bearing the tight space, abundance of strangers, and Yuuri and Viktor’s tempers with the grace and patience of a saint. Or an elderly and well-tempered poodle. 

“Yuuri!” The shout seemed to echo through the station as Viktor wheeled up a cart, piled high with suitcases and bags. He dropped to the bench at Yuuri’s side, sweeping his hair out of his eyes and giving Makkachin a scratch behind the ears as he leaned in for a peck on the cheek and attempted to steal Yuuri’s coffee. 

Yuuri let him have it. It was worth losing the caffeine to see the look of disgust cross Viktor’s features as he drank. “That’s disgusting,” he said, dropping the to-go cup into a nearby trash bin. Yuuri only laughed, kissing him on the lips. “No, Yuuri,” Viktor protested, “you taste like gross coffee.” He kissed him back, though.

“You taste like gross coffee, too,” Yuuri pointed out.

“I know, it’s horrible.” Viktor pulled back just far enough so Yuuri could see his pout and puppy dog eyes. “Whatever will you do to make it better, my darling?”

Yuuri snorted, “Come here,” and kissed him again.

A whine and the nudge of a cold nose from Makkachin broke them apart eventually, and they, of course, apologized for neglecting her with pets and kisses and treats dug out from pockets. Viktor dropped his head on Yuuri’s shoulder with a sigh that dissolved into a low chuckle. “So much for my brilliant, exciting idea. Remind me to cross multi-day train travel off the list of future travel adventures.”

Yuuri looked up from where he was still doting on Makkachin, her head resting on his knee. “Don’t worry about it. It was a good idea. It just didn’t work out. And we’re here now, that’s the important thing.” A wry grin made its way across his face. “Although I’m afraid this means your plans to travel the Trans-Siberian railway one day are right out.”

That coaxed a smile out of Viktor. “Oh no, you’re right.” He sat up and pressed one more kiss to Yuuri’s lips. “Now,” he said, staring down the overburdened luggage cart with a steady gaze and his hands on his hips, “What do you think about finding us a taxi?”  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168838868@N03/47313293641/in/dateposted-friend/)

* * *

“How did you geezers ever manage to collect so much crap?” Yuri surveyed the piles and piles of clothes, paper, skating memorabilia, and god only knows what else strewn about the Katsuki-Nikiforov apartment interspersed with boxes, butcher paper, packing peanuts, and garbage bags.

Yuuri shrugged as he sorted through a pile of old envelopes, cross-legged on the floor. “It just sort of happens, I guess.”

Yuri hopped over a box of glassware and flopped on the loveseat, knocking a stack of folders onto the ground in the process. “Shit,” he said, staring down at the spray of paper spread on the dark hardwood floor, “sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Yuuri waved at the mess dismissively. “I have to go through it anyway.”

Yuri snarled at the mess of paper but grudgingly leaned back on the loveseat. He was taller than it was long, and his feet stuck out over the far arm, the other digging into his shoulder blades. A throw pillow behind his back only somewhat alleviated the problem and he rolled his eyes. Viktor and Katsudon weren’t that much shorter than he was. How did they make this stupid piece of furniture work? Probably by being all cuddly lovey-dovey, or by sitting in it properly like normal human beings, but he refused to surrender to the social dictates of furniture. At least when not in Lilia’s presence. 

“Why are you even bothering sort through all this?” he asked.

“Because it would be expensive to ship it all to Japan and I only want to take what we’re sure we want to keep.” Yuuri flicked through the last dozen envelopes in his hands before dropping them all in the recycle box.

“But didn’t you ship it here from Japan? Your half of it anyway.”

Yuuri looked over the mess of the living room and shrugged. “I only brought the important stuff last time. Viktor even thought I brought too little. It just sort of . . . multiplies. Over time.”

Yuri snorted. “Yeah, no shit.”

“Are you just going to lie there, or are you going to help?” Yuuri asked, tossing an old shirt at Yuri as he starts to go through one of the clothing piles.

“Why? I already went through all of my stuff. I’m all packed and ready to go. I didn’t procrastinate like you two.” He whines and makes a face, but Yuri sits up and digs into the pile anyway.

“Yeah, well. Moving two people and a dog across the world turns out to be a lot more difficult than moving one person.” Yuuri shoved an empty cardboard box at him. “Here, you can put those in here.”

Yuri set the now-folded shirts into the box. “Yeah, but you didn’t have to move. You could stay in Russia.”

A sweater settled into Yuuri’s lap, his fingers fidgeting with the sleeves as he sighed. “My family is in Japan,” he said, eyes fixed on Yuri with the pleading look of someone explaining something both already know, “and Hasetsu is where we decided we wanted to live and work long term.”

“Well, it’s a stupid decision. Just look at all this crap you have to deal with to move. And I know the JSF and FFKK have been giving you shit over it. We’ve got nicer facilities here, anyway.” The words start out harsh and defiant but trail off into a half-hearted mumble. He knows he’s being unreasonable, and even if he wasn’t it was already far too late for anything to change now. Things were changing whether he liked them or not.

“No dissing the Ice Castle or I’ll tell Yuuko on you.” Yuuri sighed and set a hand on Yuri’s knee. “Yura, you don’t have to come with us. I know Viktor and Yakov always kind of assumed that you’d work with Viktor if you were still skating when Yakov retired, but there are plenty of wonderful coaches in Russia, any of whom would be lucky to work with you. It’s a little last minute, but if you really want to stay in Russia, we can help you work something out.”

Yuri groaned and let his head drop into his hands. “No, I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant.” His hair is long now, down to his elbows, and he hadn’t put it up in a braid that morning so it fell in a convenient curtain, shielding his face from Yuuri. 

Because that’s not what he meant, that’s not what he wants at all. He’d never admit it to their faces, but the two idiots are important people in his life and as much as he does not want them moving to Japan the idea of them moving to Japan without him is a whole lot worse. But the move whole move thing is wrapped up in a bunch of other stuff that he very much does not like and very much does not want to talk about and so. Here he is, sniping and bitching like he’s fifteen again with no idea how to talk about his feelings like an adult.

(He does know how to talk about his feelings now, thank you very much, he just happens to be really bad at it.)

Yuuri was still looking at him with that concerned expression and it’s starting to make Yuri feel a little nauseous from the guilt. “It’s nothing, I’m sorry,” he said again, “never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Yura, I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is. You don’t have to talk to me, but I’m here to listen if you want to.”

“Have you been reading those ‘how to talk to your teenager’ self-help books again? Because you sound like a self-help book. And I’m twenty-one. Those books don’t even apply anymore.”

“I-” Yuuri laughed. “I might have found a few of them when I was going through the bookshelves. Don’t worry, they went in the ‘giveaway’ pile,” he added, dodging the half-hearted kick Yuri sent his way. “But seriously, Yura. Viktor and I are here to help you whether we are your coaches or not. But I’m not a mind reader, so if something is wrong you need to tell me. Or Viktor. Or someone. And if this isn’t the direction you want your career to take you need to speak up about it. You are an adult now. You do get a say.”

“It’s just, argh.” Yuri tossed his head back and sat up, pushing his hair out of his face. “Okay. It’s just that change sucks, okay? This whole thing is just,” he gestured broadly, “aaargh.”

“Yeah, okay, I get that.” Yuuri laughed. “Change is a lot. Moving countries, switching coaches, it’s some big changes. And it’s the sort of change you haven’t done ever, or at least not this big, and not in your senior career. Even if it’s a good change, it’s normal to be anxious about this sort of thing.”

“Is that from the self-help book again?”

“Actually, it’s from my therapist.” Yuuri pushed himself up off the floor and sat next to Yuri on the loveseat. “It’s okay if this is a lot. That’s allowed.”

“Ugh. I just feel so stupid,” he groaned, leaning ever-so-slightly into Yuuri’s shoulder, “like, I should be better at handling this? I’m a professional athlete, I’ve been dealing with this sort of crap since I was a little kid. Why now? Why this? And I don’t actually hate any of it. Like, I know this is a good career move and all that. And grandpa wants me to do it, so I don’t have to worry about that. So why is it so damn hard?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it just is. The human brain is weird like that.”

“Uuugh.” Yuri flopped back against the loveseat, throwing an arm over his eyes. He’s gotten almost as extra as Katsudon and the old man. He drops his arm. If only those two weren’t the best skaters of their generation, possibly ever, he wouldn’t have to move to Japan and risk catching more extra-ness while training with them.

Whatever. It’s worth the risk. Not that he’s telling them that.

* * *

The first time they had visited Paris it was March, a bit cold and drizzly, the first bright tendrils of spring just poking their way out of the cold dark hibernation of winter. A World Championship gold adorned Yuuri’s neck and another, just as valuable gold on their ring fingers. Yuuri had been to Paris before, of course, competition and ice shows had brought him to the city a few times in his career, but being there with Viktor, on their honeymoon, was an entirely different experience.

They didn’t have much time, at least by Viktor’s estimation. Yuuri was over the moon to have three entire weeks to explore the city and spend with Viktor. But Viktor shook his head and sighed, bemoaning all the things they were unable to see. “You can’t see Paris in three weeks, Yuuri,” he said, “You can’t see all of Paris in a lifetime. My mothers and I used to take family vacations here when I was a child. I want to show you so many beautiful things, and we don’t have the time.”

Yuuri had laughed at that. “Well, then I guess we'll just have to see only some of the beautiful things. I’ll start with this beautiful thing right here.” And kissed him. They did not make it outside of their tastefully appointed boutique hotel room that day.

The second trip to Paris, five years later, feels different, calmer yet no less dazzling. It was probably him that was different, Yuuri thought, the pair of them that have changed more than the city. There are four more World and two Olympic titles added to Yuuri’s side of the shared trophy case, Viktor has long since retired and gained several years of coaching apprenticeship under Yakov, and Yuuri, freshly retired himself and staring down the gaping expanse that is the future outside the competitive circuit, Viktor’s assurances that they will make a fantastic coaching team notwithstanding.

There are practical differences, too. They have even less time in the city this trip—only a week for their celebratory ‘congratulations on retiring and moving to Japan to start your new careers’ vacation—which Viktor had decreed a travesty of a whirlwind tour if a necessary one. “The sacrifices we make for our careers,” he had intoned solemnly with the shake of his head and an exaggerated frown that earned him a snort from Minako, an eye-roll from Mari, and a giggle from Yurri’s mother. Then Yuuri had poured him another cup of tea and they had gotten back to planning out the rest of Yuuri’s final competitive season.

The weather is different, too, this time around. It’s spring proper now, and the trees and flowers are in the full bloom of the season. “You’re going in freaking tourist season,” Yuri had snapped when they told him of their plans. Yuuri still wasn’t sure if that had been a statement of encouragement or condescension. And the streets seemed no more obviously full of tourists than the last time they had visited. 

Paris was still Paris, Yuuri thought, staring out the window of the taxicab as they drive down the broad, tree-lined boulevards on the way to the hotel. Viktor rests his head on Yuuri’s shoulder, Makkachin’s head in his lap. “What do you want for lunch?” he asked.

“Croque Monsieur,” Yuuri replied immediately.

“Are you sure? You’ll get a stomach ache.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

“Traditional French bistro it is, then.”

Viktor looked back down at his phone. He’s on Yelp browsing through restaurants even though Yuuri knew from experience that he will certainly ask the hotel desk clerk or a taxi driver for recommendations. Yelp is for competitions. Vacations are more laid back; they get the personal touch. Yuuri would tease him about it but by now he finds it to be one of Viktor’s more endearing idiosyncrasies.

The hotel was a converted Haussmann apartment building, furnished with a stylish combination of period antiques and sleek modern accents. It was the same place they stayed on their honeymoon and Yuuri mentally fist pumped at Viktor’s cry of delight and heart-shaped smile when they are assigned the same room. It makes the days and hours he spent on long-distance telephone calls and juggling email chains pleading with the management in his mediocre French to ensure the room would be available worth it.

The in-house dog walker offered to take Makkachin while they get settled in. They gratefully accept—it had been a long trip and she’d been such a good girl, she deserved a nice long walk and to run around on the grass. Even with the two of them, it would take far too long to get their room settled. And, speaking from experience, it often took even longer to unpack with the two of them. What with all the distractions. 

So, with Makkachin safely escorted by the dog-walker to her late morning’s activities, Viktor and Yuuri carried their luggage to their room with the help of two of the hotel porters, who were thanked and sent off with a generous tip as Viktor closed the door behind them.

Ensconced in the quiet suite and surrounded by luggage, Yuuri pulled Viktor in for a kiss. “Happy anniversary, Vitya,” he said, pressing quick, light kisses to Viktor’s cheek, nose, and other cheek before returning to his mouth. “I love you very much.”

Viktor melted into his hold at his words. “I love you, too, solnyshko.” The words are a bit muffled as they are murmured against Yuuri’s lips, but he heard them clearly anyway. Even if he couldn’t, their meaning is undeniably obvious in every line of Viktor’s body. Yuuri could only hope that he is as unspokenly honest with Viktor as Viktor is with him. He still marveled every day at how lucky he is to have Viktor in his life and he hopes, desperately, that Viktor knows it when his feelings are more than words can convey.

They stand there, pressed up against one another, in the quiet of the hotel room, far from distraction or any thought but that of the other. Yuuri shifted, pressing Viktor up against the wall for better leverage as he deepened the kiss and slides a hand up under Viktor’s shirt.

Viktor pulled back with a gasp and a laugh. “At this rate you aren’t going to get your sandwich.”

Yuuri shook his head and went back to pressing kisses along Viktor’s jaw. “It doesn’t matter. They have room service.” He could feel the laughter vibrating in Viktor’s throat as he kisses and nips down the strong column.

“Well, I’m certainly not objecting.”

They don’t make it out of their hotel room until late that evening, either.

* * *

Yuri shoved the pile of binders and bulging manila envelopes to one side, wincing slightly as the stack collapsed in a long, slow slide across the granite island. “What the hell is all this crap?” he asked as he awkwardly tried to shuffle the collection of paperwork back into some semblance of order.

“That? It’s um,” Yuuri dropped another box of file folders onto the counter and peered over at the stack Yuri was messing with. “Oh,” he said, “I’ve been looking for that one.” He grabbed one of the envelopes, filled to bursting with papers and pamphlets to the point the flap couldn’t seal, and peaked through the contents. “This one’s for our vacation.”

“Vacation? Since when are you two going on vacation? Since when do you have time to go on vacation?” Yuri glanced at the piles of papers warily. “This isn’t all for vacation planning, is it?” He didn’t think it was, but he’d known Viktor ‘Extra’ Nikiforov for more than eight years and Katsuki ‘Secretly Even More Extra Than My Husband’ Yuuri for six and he could never be completely certain.

“What? No,” Yuuri said and gestured at paperwork scattered across the apartment. “Most of this is for work. Coaching requires a lot of paperwork.” He winced slightly.

“Oh, okay. That’s good. Or not, I guess. But, let me ask again, since when are you going on vacation?” Yuri, although he would likely never be described as a paragon of tact, was learning how to better navigate at least Yuuri’s personal boundaries, and he did not want to push too hard on the ‘career change/major life change’ stressor that he knew his friend and soon to be coach was trying to navigate. Hell, he didn’t want to think about the whole issue either. But he did want to know when this whole vacation thing had happened because he’d certainly missed that one.

“Are you telling Yurio about our vacation plans?” Viktor’s voice was as obnoxiously cheerful as usual as he schlepped yet another box full of binders from the home office to the kitchen.

“No, nobody’s told me anything, old man, I didn’t even know you were going on a vacation,” Yuri grumbled. Viktor slid his box onto the island, forcing Yuri to move further down, and he grumbled about that too. He had thought the being mad at everything would have gone away after puberty but no, angry, shouty, and grumpy seemed to have set themselves up as permanent fixtures of his personality.

Yuuri slid his arm through Viktor’s and squeezed. “I was just getting to it. But look, I found our itinerary. It got mixed in with the JSF paperwork.”

Viktor grabbed the folder and began sifting through its contents like an excited child at Christmas. Yuri rolled his eyes. “Is anyone actually going to tell me about this trip of yours? When? Where? Is it going to affect my training schedule in any way?”

Viktor set down the brochures looking slightly abashed. “Sorry, Yurio. I thought we’d told you. We’re taking a week to go to Paris after we’ve finished up with the move.”

Yuri shrugged. Of course, the romantic idiots were going to Paris. Again. And it wasn’t as though he wouldn’t have things to do. He had to move himself over to Japan, and then he had ice shows and could snag some time to hang out with Yuuko and eat lots of Mama Hiroko’s delicious cooking before the pre-season really kicked into gear.

Still. Would it have killed them to give him a little more notice? By now he expected this kind of absent-minded behavior from Viktor, but Katsudon was usually better about that kind of thing.

“Whatever,” he said, “have fun being gross and romantic. Maybe next time you’ll remember to give me some advance notice before jetting across the globe. At least this is better than disappearing without a word.” The last bit is grumbled under his breath. No, he was never letting that go.

Yuuri, who had been standing and listening to their exchange with a confused frown finally piped up and said, “Yura, but we did tell you. At Mila’s retirement party.”  
Yuri flushed as the memories slowly came back. He might have had a little (a lot) too much to drink at Mila’s retirement party, but Yuuri’s words prompt the memories out from the alcohol-fuzzed corner of his brain.

In conjunction with her retirement, Mila had finally, _finally_ moved out of the skater’s dormitories and into her own apartment, so the retirement party had doubled as a housewarming. Yuri’s attendance had been begrudging to start with, and the entire affair had only started bad and gotten worse from his perspective.

The party had been in full swing by the time Yuri dragged himself up the stairs to Mila’s new apartment, scuffing his new tennis shoes and banging the heavy gift bag with its obnoxiously cheerful pink and orange tissue paper against the back of his knee with every step. He knew he was being sullen and immature, knew he was acting like he was fifteen and too full of anger and anxiety and fear to do anything but shout at everyone who tried to reach out to him, but he couldn't help it. There he was, twenty-one freaking years old and back to feeling like he was a teenager because every single adult in his life except his grandpa had up and decided to enact some significant life change or other, all of which just so happen to majorly impact him.

The calm, rational part of his brain—a portion which until recently went underdeveloped, or purposefully ignored, but had been getting more and more airtime in recent months and years—had piped up with the argument that his friends were adults, which meant that they could do what they wanted with their lives, and also with the reminder that he, too, was an adult, and could do what he wanted with his. 

Yuri had scowled and told the logical part of his brain to shut up. Yes, it was true that Viktor and Katsudon and Mila and Georgi and Beka and Yakov were all adults (some older and more adult than others). And yes, it was true that he was also an adult. It was funny that sometimes these days he felt less grown up then he had at fifteen (he was certain now that he had been wrong at fifteen, but despite his increased maturity he was less certain of his ever managing to achieve adult competence than he had ever been as a teenager). But the problem was that what he, as an adult, wanted, was dependent on the actions of a bunch of other people who, as adults, were acting completely independently and in contradiction to any of Yuri’s own plans.

He had knocked on the apartment door with rather more force than necessary, gritting his teeth and forcing an expression slightly less unsociable than ‘murderous’. He hadn’t wanted anyone commenting on the return of teenage Yuri, or to start asking questions about why such a reversion of personality might have occurred.

Mila had opened the door and smiled as her gaze lit upon Yuri. She had a glass of champagne in her hand and was wearing black slacks and a dark green boat neck cashmere sweater Yuri knew Sara Crispino had given her for her birthday the prior year. He had found himself pulled into the apartment and a hug and struggled not to hit her with his gift, the unwieldy bag swinging precariously from its thin cord handles. 

“Hey, punk, glad you could make it.”

Yuri had awkwardly squeezed her back, and for once didn’t comment about the stupid name-calling. By now she meant it affectionately, most of the time at least. And punk was better than half the stuff she could come up with when she was feeling mean. 

The night and his mood had devolved from there. Yuuri and Viktor had gifted Mila a blender which, upon being pressed into service to make margaritas, had not lasted more than ten minutes. Viktor had laughingly promised to buy her a new, better replacement, and to bring her something nice from Paris to make up for the inconvenience.

The statement had prompted Yuri to ask and Yuuri to elaborate that yes, they were planning a short vacation, sometime before the start of the pre-season, to Paris. Yuri had nodded understandingly and, in the absence of margaritas, spent the rest of the evening drinking rather too much straight tequila.

Yuri cursed the universe, alcohol, and his entire circle of (friends) acquaintances in general and Yuuri, Viktor, and tequila in particular. Why did Mila even have tequila, they were Russian, in St. Petersburg. Margaritas were a weird thing to be drinking and a bad idea all around.

“I forgot,” was all he said, embarrassment flooding his cheeks pink. Viktor looked at him pityingly, which he hated. Katsudon looked a bit more empathetic, which he could almost take. He rushed forward. “What are you doing on your stupid romantic getaway, anyway?” he asked, grabbing for the envelope of brochures.

Viktor immediately launched into a long-winded explanation of all the sights they wanted to see and the difficulty they were having narrowing down their itinerary given the time restrictions on their stay. Yuri fanned out the tall stack of glossy brochures and gasped as he pulled out one that grabbed his attention.

“What, no way,” he said, in a tone usually reserved for big cats, his favorite bands, and anything particularly impressive Otabek’s sisters convinced him to post on Instagram (which was anything posted to Otabek’s Instagram). “You guys are going to tour the catacombs? That’s so cool.”

(A comment which immediately made Viktor and Yuuri’s travel planning that bit easier, since ‘catacombs tour’ automatically made it onto the must-see list. So, they could tell Yuri about it. Purely out of the kindness of their hearts. And not at all so they could tease him and make him jealous. Not at all.)

* * *

The map they received from the tourist information center was worse than useless. Not only did it not help them figure out where they were or where they were going, thirty seconds after they pulled it out to check their directions it started to drizzle, and the cheap paper began to disintegrate from the wet.

“We can check our phones,” Viktor gently reminded his husband who was frowning at the now slightly blurry cartographical markings as the ink began to run. “We have international plans.”

But Yuuri stubbornly shook his head. “No, I think I figured it out. We just need to keep going along here and we’ll find it. We’re on the right track, we just haven’t gone far enough.”

Viktor sighed with a smile, gently shaking his head as he took Yuuri’s arm in his. He loved his husband’s strength and determination, and they always brought about such wonderful results on the ice. Sometimes, though, on the ice and off it, that stubbornness came through in ways that prevented him from taking a simpler route, an alternative, or a break. And while that often led to brilliance in his programs, the line between brilliance and burnout was very thin. Not that Viktor had any room to talk, just ask Yakov.

Still, Viktor worried. In the years Viktor had coached him, Yuuri had managed to balance on that line like a tightrope more precariously than Viktor would have liked. But he’d done it, and done it to the spectacular end of two Olympic and five World Championship gold medals, not to mention the GPF, Four Continents, Japanese Nationals, and all the silver and bronze finishes besides. But with his husband now retired Viktor worried about how and where Yuuri would direct that tremendous drive. He hoped it would funnel into their new shared coaching venture. But Yuuri’s recent reluctance to talk about that had him worried too.

They continued along the quiet, tree-lined street, populated by embassies, consulates, academic institutes in their stonework buildings that spoke of restrained wealth. The temperature continued to drop, and they could feel the damp down to their skin, even through the protection of their water-resistant windbreakers. Viktor’s nose was numb with cold, and the part of his hair not plastered to his neck from the rain had frizzed up into unruly waves from the humidity.

Yuuri wasn’t wearing gloves and stuffed his hands into his pockets, elbow still linked with Viktor’s. He was frowning that determined frown as they hurried along, peering at every street sign and mouthing along as he worked out what they said with his mediocre French.

At least Makkachin seemed happy, following along with a spring in her step and her tongue lolling, seemingly impervious to the damp.

It felt like thirty minutes, but was probably only more like ten, when they reached a small hut like a ticket booth constructed in the middle of the sidewalk. The shutters were closed and the awning was drawn in, and there was not a soul to be seen on the street apart from them and some workmen in reflective vests and hard hats tucked into the protection of a doorway overhang to shelter from the rain and smoke their cigarettes.

“Is this it?” Viktor wondered aloud. He circled around the back of the building, Yuuri and Makkachin taking the opposite direction.

“Vitya, come look at this.” Viktor hurried to complete his (admittedly very short) circuit to find Yuuri pointing at a sheet of paper taped to the outside of the green painted shutters that barred the kiosk’s ticket window. It read, in French and in English translation, _Sewer Tours Cancelled Due to Excessive Rain_.

Viktor began to laugh. After a moment Yuuri joined him, his low chuckle growing to a proper, full-throated laugh ringing loud and clear in the cold, damp air in concert with Viktor. Makkachin barked and put her paws up on the ticket kiosk ledge, since clearly there was something good up there if both her papas were so amused by it.

“We can’t see the catacombs because there’s too much water in the sewers,” Viktor said, sucking in cold lungsful of air as he tried to stifle his mirth to a giggle. “However shall we explain this to Yurio? We’re missing out on our chance to do ‘the one cool thing’ in the entire city.”

“Just be grateful that he isn’t here,” said Yuuri, his smile shining brightly in the cloudy sunlight. “Then we’d really never hear the end of it.”

The thought of their friend and student’s imagined disgruntled reaction set them both off in peals of laughter once more, until their sides ached and the passel of workmen were looking at them strangely over their cigarettes. Hiccupping faintly Yuuri grabbed his husband’s elbow and steered him and Makkachin slowly down the street. It was only their second day in the city and he didn’t want them getting arrested for causing a public disturbance.

Again. 

Granted, raucous laughter was pretty tame by their standards, but he didn’t want to risk it. They had a timetable to keep. A timetable that had just considerably opened up.

“So, Vitya,” Yuuri said as they both caught their breaths and strolled down the, admittedly quite picturesque, street. “Shall we find a cafe? I could do with a bite to eat after all that.”

“That sounds lovely. And a hot drink, definitely.” Viktor laughed. “I’m a bit chilled. I’d like to file a complaint with the weather, it’s spring, it’s supposed to be nicer than this.”

Yuuri reached up to playfully poke the tip of his husband’s reddened nose. “I don’t think the weather had a customer complaints department, unfortunately. I would have had a thing or two to say to the St. Petersburg branch if it did.”

Viktor chuckled and pressed a kiss to Yuuri’s cheek. Arm in arm, the couple and their dog wandered through the neighborhood under overcast skies until they found a cafe.

* * *

A light dusting of pollen flew up as Viktor set down the last of the boxes in the kitchen of their new house. A house. He owned a house. He owned a house with Yuuri, his husband, in Hasetsu. Wow. It wasn’t a big house, and they clearly needed to clean, but it was theirs. There was even a yard for Makkachin.

“Hey, old man! Where do you want this?” Yurio’s shout struck through Viktor’s awed domestic musings like they were cobwebs and he checked the label on the box.

“Ah, back bedroom.”

“Fine.” He stomped down the hallway kicking up flurries of pollen with every step. “You really need to clean in here, it’s filthy.”

Viktor laughed. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Yurio tried to snort in disgust but the pollen tripped him up. He dissolved into a sneezing fit, glaring balefully at Viktor over the cardboard in his arms in the moments in between as he tried to recover his breath. “Asshole,” was all he managed to get out before he gave up and carried on with his burden.

Viktor was still chuckling when Yuuri came into the kitchen. Even covered in a thin film of pollen and general grime, with his hair stuck up at odd ends and dark, sleepless circles under his eyes Yuuri was still the most beautiful man Viktor had ever seen. Dust motes floating in the air all around him caught in the sunshine and he looked like he was surrounded by stars. Viktor wanted to kiss him, so he leaned in and asked.

Yuuri leaned his full body weight against him and obliged. Viktor wrapped his arms around Yuuri’s waist and he tasted of tea and the katsudon from lunch as they kissed. “I think someone forgot to tell us there’s something wrong with one of the windows,” he said, “one of the ones in the living room is open and I can’t get it shut. And it’s a mess in here.”

Yuuri pulled back with a groan. “Ugh, I know,” he said, winding an arm around Viktor’s neck and slumping down so he could rest his forehead against his shoulder. “Mari said it was fine when she visited a few weeks ago. I don’t know what could have happened that it could have gotten so bad since then. I can’t even find the face masks, they’re all packed somewhere.” 

“It’ll be fine, I’ll add calling the repairman to the to-do list. And we can grab some masks from the convenience store before we try to clean anything.” Viktor ran a hand through Yuuri’s hair. At this point he’d completely given up at trying to avoid getting the powdery yellow particles everywhere, it was already in every nook and cranny anyway. They’d just have to shower thoroughly once they got back to Yu-topia later.

“Ah, we just already have so much to do. And I feel gross.”

“You can commiserate with Yurio, then. He seems to be finding this thoroughly distasteful.”

“That’s because it is, old man.” The snappish words that drifted from the hallway ahead of Yuri were punctuated by a pair of sneezes and an indignant sniff that made him look like nothing so much as an annoyed housecat. “Why can’t you just hire someone to deal with this for you instead of drafting me as indentured labor? I’m a figure skater, not a moving . . . person.” The feline impression was not helped by the incredibly cat-like fumble and recovery.

Viktor laughed. “Because it’s more fun this way.”

“Says you. What if I strain something, hauling all your junk? That would be a fine way for your star pupil to start his season.”

“Are you our star pupil?” The corner of Viktor’s mouth twitched in a teasing smirk.

“Why don’t we go and get some ice cream,” Yuuri said, cutting off the impending spat. It was too hot and he was too tired for arguments, no matter how good-natured they might be.

“But what about our star pupil? Should he really be eating so much rich food so close to the season?” Viktor wiggled his eyebrows it a way that was probably supposed to convey comic concern but was mostly just comical.

“Shut up, old man, I can afford an ice pop.” Yuri wiped a grimy hand down Viktor’s shirt as he made his way out the door. “And for that, you’re buying me _two_ ice pops.”

Viktor protested, staring down at his ruined shirt with dismay, but the sound of Yuuri’s laughter and the cheerful spill of sunlight as they made their way out into the garden, filled his chest with contentment and joy. And yeah, Yurio definitely deserved at least two popsicles for putting up with their hassle.

* * *

It was a Wednesday morning—the weather back to its usual clear sunshine and moderate temperatures—and right as the doors opened, so the Musée de l’Orangerie was not crowded as Yuuri and Viktor made their way from the ticket booth and into the museum proper. Yuuri picked up one of the museum’s visitors guides—one in Japanese, so he could show his parents when they got home—and gave it a quick glance before sticking it in his back pocket. They knew what they were here to see, after all.

The pair made a beeline for the stairs up to the second floor, bypassing the array of paintings by numerous famed impressionists and early twentieth century artists to head straight for the main attraction: Monet’s Les Nymphéas. The oval-shaped room was practically empty as the pair stepped inside, only a couple of visitors had been quicker to reach the most popular exhibit. 

The sound was muffled, only the faint rustle of clothing and occasional carpeted footstep disturbed the peaceful space, the soft glow of sunlight quietly diffusing throughout the gallery. It was full rather of the feeling of a child on holiday who had woken before their parents and had crept out to explore the rental home their own. A stolen moment, almost, something not forbidden, but somehow not quite allowed.

Yuuri slipped his arm around Viktor’s waist as they slowly made their circuit around the exhibition space. The first cycle of The Water Lilies stretched along the curved walls, the delicate interplay of light and water and sky and reflection playing out in four masterfully rendered works of color and illusion.

They took their time, slowly exploring each of the panels, holding each other close as they walked. It was one of Yuuri’s favorite things about visiting art museums with Viktor. He had never been much of one for art or art museums before he’d started going with Viktor. Between ballet and skating he had plenty of culture, and with school and competitions thrown in, he had no spare time for them besides.

But Viktor loved museums. All kinds of museums, not just art museums. When Yuuri asked he said his mothers had taken him to all kinds of museums when he was a child—art, science, history, technology. The smile on his face when he said it spoke of fondly held memories. Then they’d dropped the subject and gone back to choreographing Yuuri’s free skate for the upcoming season.

When Yuuri had asked his mothers in law about it he’d been treated to photo albums full of tiny child Viktor at every museum, zoo, and aquarium in St. Petersburg, half the ones in Paris, and a smattering of others across the globe. Toddler Viktor staring up at the Winged Victory in the Louvre, kindergarten-aged Viktor with his nose pressed up against a rocks and minerals display, Viktor, probably not that long before his Junior debut, in front of the Hermitage, wrapped up in a purple and blue geometric ski jacket and grinning ear to ear. Yuuri may or may not have snuck a few of the duplicates out and into his own personal album.

The point was, Viktor loved museums. But they rarely visited them. Yuuri knew why. Between his busy schedule of practice and competition and ice shows and Viktor’s busy schedule of practice and competition and coaching and ice shows, and then no practice or competition but even more coaching and even more paperwork, they two of them had limited and jealously guarded free time. And when they had a break, they tried to do things they both enjoyed together.

But this was something Viktor loved. And something he had abandoned in his long journey towards becoming the living legend of figure skating. Yuuri had made it his mission to help give Viktor as many things he loved as he possibly could. Because Viktor deserved the world, and Yuuri wanted to help give it to him.

So Yuuri started to increase the number of museums stops on their itineraries. A visit to the Ghibli museum after Japanese Nationals. A stop at the China Art Museum during the Cup of China. And he had Viktor take him to the museums in St. Petersburg on their rest days, and in the off-season, whenever they can squeeze a trip in.

At first Viktor worries, asking if he’s sure he isn’t board, but Yuuri finds himself enjoying it, too. He’d always enjoyed sightseeing, even if he’d never found much time to go to museums. And going with Viktor is a whole different experience from going with anybody else. Viktor does research ahead of time, learning about the collections they are going to see and the history of the museum itself. And when he gets home, he’s often inspired to further exploration by something he saw, to do further research, or start sketching out ideas for a new program.

His enthusiasm is infectious, and Yuuri loves watching the joy light up his husband’s eyes as he stares at a masterful painting or explains how static electricity works while gesturing at an electrostatic generator. He has found that he enjoys learning new things and viewing beautiful art just as much as Viktor does.

There is another, unexpected benefit of their museum patronage as well. When they’re at a museum, slowly making their way through the exhibits, they can hold one another close, arm around the others shoulder or waste, perhaps softly resting their head against the other as they stop to view a painting or a display. The casual closeness touring an exhibit permits (at least when it isn’t too crowded, and when Viktor hasn’t gotten so excited as to run across the exhibition space) has turned into one of his favorite things about visiting museums with Viktor. In the end, it’s the fact that he gets to do it _with Viktor_ that makes it all the better. 

Yuuri softly set his head down on his husband’s shoulder. Viktor glanced over from the bit of greenery he was peering at to raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you okay?” he asked. “We can move on if you’re bored.”

Yuuri shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Just getting a different perspective, that’s all.”

Viktor smiled and slipped his arm around Yuuri’s waist to pull him closer. “Want to sit?” he asked, nodding at the circular bench in the center of the room.

At Yuuri’s nod they made their way and sat, still intertwined, looking at the painting Viktor had been so closely examining. “What’s this one called?” Yuuri asked.

“ _Morning_ ,” Viktor said, “or, well, _The Water Lilies: Morning_. They’re all called _The Water Lilies_ something, that’s why they’re known as Monet’s _Water Lilies_.”

“I thought they were known as Monet’s _Water Lilies_ because they are paintings of water lilies.”

Viktor clapped his free hand over his mouth to stifle the laugh that suddenly burst forth. The other visitors in the gallery turned and stared with reproach, but thankfully it was still fairly empty and there were only a few pairs of accusatory eyes with which to fix the disruptor of the peace.

“Well, yes, that too,” Viktor said once he’d forced his laughter back to only the crinkle in the corners of his eyes. The words were a hushed whisper in defense against any further public censure, and Yuuri felt a squeeze of sympathy and guilt. He pressed a kiss to Viktor’s shoulder in apology.

As the minutes passed slowly by, and Viktor and Yuuri sat on the bench in the center of the gallery viewing the composition, the space began to grow more and more crowded. By ones and twos, the museum patrons filed in, gradually filling the room with more people and noise and movement. It was the sort of thing you would hardly notice, unless you had been there from the beginning, and unless you were watching closely.

Yuuri watched, from the bench perfectly situated to view as newcomers would enter and file past the cycle of paintings, some hardly looking at them as they hurried by, others proceeding with a careful, measured pace as they walked around and through to the next part of the exhibit. Some would stand very close to the art and have to be told off by the docents to please step back, while others took spots on the bench alongside Yuuri and Viktor to enjoy the view from afar.

Viktor was observing, too. Yuuri could tell that his husband was alternating between admiring the artwork and monitoring their fellow visitors. He hugged his husband tighter, if such a thing were still possible given their already near overlapping seating positions.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked.

Viktor smiled. “Yes,” he said, “are you?”

“Yes.” He loved Viktor’s smile, that warm, open, genuine display of how happy he was. 

“Do you like it?” 

“I think it’s beautiful,” Yuuri said, eyes glued to Viktor’s profile.

Viktor caught his gaze and mock-glared at him. “I meant the painting, not me,” he said, although his scolding tone was belied by the smile he could not hide.

“Yeah, that’s beautiful too.” Yuuri pressed a kiss to his husband’s cheek and settled back to look at the water lilies.

* * *

Yuuri snuggled deeper into Viktor’s shoulder, the drone of the airplane engines by now the familiar, if loud, background sound droning through his dreams as he tried to sleep. The faint tickle of his hair across his cheek as Viktor tucked a few errant strands back behind his ear brought a smile to his face.

“Are you awake?” Viktor’s words were a hushed whisper, barely audible over the noise of the engines.

“Well, I’m not asleep.” Yuuri didn’t bother opening his eyes, just wrapped his hand more firmly in Viktor’s and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “What time is it?”

Yuuri felt the familiar curve of Viktor’s lips pressed to his forehead, followed by the quiet reply. “It’s almost morning. They're about to serve breakfast.”

“Oh, well, I should get up then.” Viktor laughed as Yuuri made no move to sit up, or find his glasses, or open his eyes, and Yuuri smiled as he felt the vibrations of Viktor’s rumbly chuckle travel through him. Contorted into a pair of airplane seats, even in business class, was never the most comfortable way to sleep, or travel, but, half asleep and pressed up against his favorite person, Yuuri wanted to move as much as he was actually looking forward to eating the airline breakfast he would soon be served. 

Yuuri let himself drift back to sleep and floating in a hazy doze, the gentle rise and fall of Viktor’s breaths keeping an easy pace next to his cheek, the eventual intrusion of the soft-spoken words came as something of a surprise.

“Are you happy?” Barely more than a whisper breathed into his ear, Yuuri could almost believe he imagined them if he hadn't spent so many years (most of his life, truth be told) so acutely attuned to the specific sound that was Viktor’s voice.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Yuuri murmured back, burrowing deeper into Viktor’s side. “I am, right now, for example, very happy. Is there something that suggested to you that I’m not?”

Viktor huffed a faint laugh at that. “About the future,” he clarified, “about retirement, and moving, and coaching, and everything we’re doing.”

That was serious enough to draw Yuuri out of his sleepy daze and get him to crack an eye. “It’s a little late to ask if I’m having second thoughts,” he said, “the pre-season starts next week. We have students arriving in Hasetsu in less than twenty-four hours.” 

“I know, I know, just. You’re okay? With everything?” The thread of concern in Viktor’s voice was thin and hidden, but Yuuri knew his husband well. He took a moment to consider the question.

“I’m a little sad about retiring,” he finally admitted, “but we’ve talked about that, and I know it was time. I’m anxious about coaching, because it’s new, and it’s a big change, and I want it to go well, for both of us, and because if I do badly it will reflect poorly on you.” Viktor started to say something in protest, but Yuuri lay a quelling hand on his thigh. “I might be nervous, but am I happy?” He turned to look at his husband, eyes still sleepy but shining full of warmth and love, smile bright in the soft rays of sunlight creeping into the cabin. “Never doubt that I am very, very happy to be doing this with you.”

He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Viktor’s mouth before settling back against his chest. “Wake me up when breakfast gets here.”

As he drifts back to sleep, he feels Viktor lift their entwined hands to press a kiss to the back of his wrist. “I’m happy to be doing this with you, too.”

* * *

Yuri’s new apartment was small, but it was all his. Well, his and Potya’s. No roommates, no bunkmates, no strangers sharing his space. No grandpa, no Katsuki family, no Lilia. Just him and his cat. It was strange. It was nice.

It was too quiet and Yuri was bored. 

With Viktor and Yuuri gone on their vacation and preparations for the season still in the early stages, he had nothing to do. He’d already unpacked and organized everything he’d brought with him and gone shopping for the remaining things he needed. He worked out every day and visited the Katsuki’s and messaged Otabek and went down to the beach and called his grandpa and sketched out some ideas for new choreography for his exhibition program to show Viktor, but the hours just crept by.

It didn’t help that Katsudon and the old man didn’t even have the courtesy to Snapchat him photos from Paris and brag about all the cool stuff he was missing.

“Aww, it sounds like you really miss them,” Yuuko had said when he made the mistake of complaining about this blatant snub in her presence. All his sputtering protestations failed to remove the fond smile from her face. At least that awful conversation had garnered him an invitation to dinner, followed by the chance to race the triplets around the neighborhood on roller skates, but he couldn’t let the idea that he might genuinely want to spend time with Viktor and Yuuri get out. 

His reputation as the Russian Punk may have mellowed in the last few years, (and through a lot of concerted effort on his part, thank you), but he didn’t want people thinking he was too nice. Worse, Viktor might find out. Katsudon Yuri could accept (he probably already knew, if Yuri was being honest, he’d helped Yuri thorough enough of his teenage and not-so-teenage emotional drama not to). But Viktor would be insufferable.

Mari’s response was, if possible, even worse. “They’re probably just trying to spare you exposure to how romantic and sappy their being.” That was both probably true and definitely something Yuri did not want to think about.

A wrapped-up bento lunchbox found its way into Yuri’s bag before he left the onsen to head back to his apartment. He’d tried to protest that he was an adult and he could cook his own food, but Yuuri’s parents always waved him off, saying that even if he could cook for himself a few extra treats never hurt, and he could always share with Potya.

They always did a good job of packing things that were at least diet-plan adjacent, if not diet-plan approved, Yuri thought as he unwrapped his box and Potya wound around his ankles, drawn by the contents. Lots of fish or chicken and vegetables, perfect for a figure skater and his persnickety housecat. Though, he supposed, it shouldn’t be surprising since the Katsuki’s had fed Yuuri for years before he left home. Still, it was considerate of them.

Potya followed him over to the living room as he sat their plates on the coffee table. Hers was a mix of the salmon from the bento and one of the new brands of wet food they were trying since her old brand wasn’t sold in Japan. His was a mix of the rest of the bento’s contents, fish and broccoli, and spinach and rice.

Yuri booted up his computer as he ate and scrolled through his email. He grinned. Otabek had sent over a list of song possibilities. Yuri slipped in his earbuds and pressed play. He was going to have awesome programs this year.

* * *

The party was small, quiet. Hardly a party at all, more a family dinner with a few extra guests and a welcoming spread of favorite foods served in the comfortable, familiar surroundings of the onsen’s main dining room. A few local guests watched the television from neighboring tables, but the cheerful exuberance of the Katsuki-Nikiforov’s (and guests) dominated the space until the lateness of the hour nudged the various parties homeward.

“It’s good to be home, isn’t it,” Viktor said, leaning against Yuuri. The combination of jet lag, an extra-large portion of Katsudon, and more toasts than he’d been paying attention for made him sleepy, a pleasant haze of tiredness hanging over him as he watched Yuri debate one of the triplets on the relative merits of some TV show.

Yuuri, who’d spent close to an hour being interrogated on minor points of JSF politics by all three of the triplets earlier in the evening hummed. “Yeah. It’s nice.” The argument across the table was picking up steam. Yuri was doing an admirable job toning down the aggression in deference to his opponents, but Yuuri could have told him his was a hopeless case. There was no winning against any of the triplets, who were tearing up their elementary school debate circuit with fervor. He just hoped none of them ever decided to go into law, they would be truly terrifying. “I don’t think Yuuko lets them watch that show.”

Viktor chuckled as Yuuri was proven correct, Yuuko rescuing Yuri and launching into her own round of scolding. The party sounds flowed around them, all their friends and family in Hasetsu laughing and drinking and talking about Yuuri and Viktor’s move, about the upcoming figure skating season, and about everything and anything in between.

Yuuri slid his hand into Viktor’s and squeezed. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“I better be. We have students coming in on the nine am train tomorrow morning.” He ran his thumb over the back of Yuuri’s hand. Years on the ice and years of meticulous care routines meant the skin was soft and smooth (and smelled faintly of peppermint)—Viktor should know, he’d introduced Yuuri to all of his own favorite brands of salves and hand creams and Yuuri had shared his the same. “But yes,” he said, more seriously this time, “I’m ready. I’m excited. Are you?”

As Viktor watched Yuuri’s mouth turned up into a wide smile. He was still looking out over the table, littered with the remnants of their meal, and the controlled chaos of the dining room filled with their friends and family.

Yuuko and Takeshi were rounding up the triplets to make their goodbyes, but the trio was as good at disappearing as they ever were and the party of five kept coming up one short. Toshiya had taken a break from the kitchen and was chatting with one of his soccer-watching buddies by the television. Hiroko and Minako were more than a little tipsy, but Yuuri’s mom was smiling and laughing as Minako expounded on something that Viktor’s still-shaky Japanese could only vaguely understand. Mari even had managed to engage a now far more cheerful looking Yuri. They were comparing something on their iPod, and it didn’t look like it was going to dissolve into a shouting match anytime soon. 

Yuuri sighed and dropped his head contentedly against Viktor’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said, with far more conviction in his voice than his relaxed posture would indicate, “I am ready.” He tilted his head upward, raising a hand to Viktor’s chin. “I love you, Vitya. We’re going to be amazing.”

That fierce determination that Viktor so loved flashed in Yuuri’s eyes and Yuuri leaned in to press their lips together. The future was waiting. They were ready to face it. Together, here, surrounded by family and friends, and love.


End file.
